


Sleeping under Dinosaurs

by WayWardWatson



Series: Party When Dead Sherlock Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood, Dinosaur sheets, Divorce, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Pre-A Study in Pink, Pre-Relationship, Sherlock is an arse, forensic science, marriage issues, which I hardly know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWatson/pseuds/WayWardWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 1: Job Descriptions</p><p>"Despite how he may look like an absolute twatwaffle next to the Great Sherlock Holmes, not everyone can become apart of a forensics team! Rigorous training that takes. And though I’m unsure as to what specific field our very own Anderson is trained in (since we see him do so very little!) I’m sure you can think of something. I’m guessing he’s on Forensic Identification - identifying specific objects from the small traces of evidence they leave. Though you don’t actually see him, you know, do this." - MJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping under Dinosaurs

**Author's Note:**

> There are a collection of Sherlock stories that I did when I was a part of the PartyWhenDead Sherlock writing event on tumblr last summer. 
> 
> So I'll be posting a series of completed drabbles. 
> 
> I may just rely on her prompts as summaries since I'm not actually great with summarizing shit - however, I'll try to make sure to include my own summaries as well.
> 
> But to clarify; anything quoted is not my own wording, Mj was the organizer and she is a super rad gal, so kudos to her. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Ever since he was 15, Anderson wanted to be a forensic scientist.

He would lay in his queen sized, red and black dinosaur-printed covered bed dreaming of crime scenes and criminals with such a happy smile. When his mum was making breakfast, Anderson would plop beside her and ramble, regardless if he was eating, on about Bass or the great Edmund Locard and their achievements in the field of forensics and how he wanted to be like them _so_ much. She’d smile and nod because she was just glad her son found something he’s passionate about and they would sit there with the dawn creeping in; just laughing and talking, eating some breakfast as the news murmured in the background.

Of course, when his father heard about it he reacted differently. It happened one morning, young Anderson was talking with his mum about DNA Analysis and the SGM +11 when his father walked in. At first he was quiet, but as he gradually understood his son’s intentions things changed. He made it clear that it was pointless thinking, _why dream about something you can’t achieve_ , besides it’s not like Anderson would have made it. He lacked the ability to commit and let’s just be frank; the boy’s not that smart. He’s just not made for this forensic shit.

Later that night as his parents muffled fight drummed through, Anderson vowed to prove his father wrong.

He started by taking courses in biology, chemistry, and microbiology. He would spend lunches reading up textbooks on the subjects, filling his binder with notes, hidden away in his school’s library. After class, he asked for worksheets or tests for practice, he would meet up afterschool for tutoring to recap a chapter. He would explain terms, facts, information with his mum in the mornings. He maintained high grades in most of his classes (English was his lowest) and soon it was time for the GCSE.

It would be a lie if he said he didn’t flaunt his score to his parents.

As the years pass; he gets a job at New Scotland Yard, buys his own flat, and eventually marries.

He thought he would be happy, but everything changed when Sherlock Holmes invaded the crime scene.

\---

Slamming through the Yard’s main door, jarring the receptionist awake, and stomping to the back offices, Anderson decided today would definitely not _be good in the slightest_.

He storms past empty desks and dark rooms, grumbling under his breath, focusing on the smell of burnt early morning coffee and the small hum of computers. Passing the DI Inspector’s office, he catches the glimmer of silver hair hovering over files, hands scratching at the roots – signs that Sherlock will most likely be involved today. _Just wonderful._ By then he’s in his own office and doesn’t, frankly, care. All he can do is just slump down in his chair and think, twisting the ring, while nursing his aching head in his hand.

It is at this moment that Sally decides to make her entrance. She leans unnoticed against the doorway watching as dawn crawls in, before gently rapping twice on the wall.  “Morning Sunshine, you look like you've had a night. You'll love this; we’re starting early today -already got a case; looks like a suicide, but could be possible homicide.”

Dragging his face up, he gives Sally a look. 

“Don’t worry, freaks not going to be there.” She grins, then pauses.

“Rough night with Martha?” When Anderson doesn’t respond, she nods, frowning. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be there. But if we’re not out front in five minutes, Greg will get cranky.” She gives him another light smile before pushing from the wall and leaving.  Smiling somewhat bitterly, Anderson counts to ten before standing up to follow her.

\---

 Sherlock came skipping onto the crime scene not even three minutes after the team arrived. The time it took collecting DNA all wasted when he found that already six collected samples had gone missing. And Sherlock didn't waste a second in insulting anything within a ten foot radius - much to everyone's chargin. 

By the time the freak was finished and scampering off with his stolen goods, the body was already in mid-transport to the morgue and the team was called back, outdone by some untrainted stranger. He ground his teeth as his the migrane rolled in. God, how he hated that man. Not man, psychopath. Damn him. 

He spent the rest of the day, observing DNA strands using the SGM program for a previous case, jotting some notes and reviewing other files that were destined for court evidence. Sally came near the end of the shift, complaining about the annoying  _freak_ and making jokes, the usual, and then Anderson decides to be brave and asks Sally to dinner. Of course, she agrees.

He makes the dinner, trying not to think how this was supposed to be for Martha and him, while Sally decides to help set up the table. It starts to rain. That’s when Anderson notices a funny pattern; it’s nothing drastic or alarming, but interesting. They’re talking. Well, they always talk, but that’s just it. No matter where they are at, what they do, they are always talking – and it doesn’t matter what the conversation is whether it’s about the freak or how nice the rain is – about everything and nothing; and he’s happy. He is _happy_. With Martha, he couldn’t do that, it was awkward and fake and so weird. Yet, now he can talk so freely without a single drop of alcohol. And then images of Martha pop up and suddenly he doesn’t feel so happy anymore.

It’s after the meal that Anderson finally tells Sally what happened. Not before downing a gulp of gin.

Today was Martha and his 7th anniversary. For the past week, he had been planning on taking the weekend off to take his wife somewhere romantic for vacation – she was chuffed. Of course, that’s when the string of suicides happened and so when he handed in his request for vacation it was denied.

He had already bought the tickets, he figured they could switch it for another date and he’d make her favorite meal, but the moment he told Martha – well, she didn’t take too kindly. Apparently, he cared more about his job then his wife. Locked away all day in the office, and what was she to do – a woman gets lonely, she needs love, she needs a man to be there for her needs and he wasn’t doing that. At that point in the argument, a horrible grief twisted in his gut as slow anger started to swell through. In a low voice, he asked. She looked him straight in the eyes and nodded.

He gave her the tickets, before kicking her out. And while he felt horrible, mad, used, he also felt relieved. 

 By the time he finished, it was well past late. Sally and Anderson talked for a while longer on the couch. She was in the middle of discussing various possibilities of how, the annomly known as Sherlock, denned in his habitat when Anderson blindly reached out for his drink and knocked Sally’s wine instead.

“Shit! No, no, this isn’t right.” Frantically, he ran to the kitchen to get a spray and cloth. The one thing about his flat – it was all beige carpeting. Running back, he crouched down to scrub at the floor. Unsure what to do, Sally ran to grab a cloth and help. For ten minutes they scrubbed, and the dark stain soon diminished to something small and unnoticeable.  Sitting back, he glared at the stupid blotch that ruined his carpet and suddenly he could see Martha's face with her restless brown eyes peering into his own whispering 'yes'. He blinked and, the blotch wasn't Martha anymore, but Sherlock- genuis, brillant,  _lucky_ Sherlock leering up at him because he wasn't  _good enough_ and  _why bother_ - 

Suddenly, Sally started giggling, he turned towards her and everything stopped. He never really fully appreciated how beautiful her smile was and, was those dimples, the voice of his father was drowned under her laughter. Anderson forgot about the blotch, and soon laughter filled the room. 

\---

It was far too late now for Sally to leave, so he offered her a night to stay. With a shy smile, she shrugged and figured its better than being mugged, but she does know defense so no funny business. But she said this with a waggle of eyebrows, so he arched his and made no promise. Since there was only one room, he gave her the only bed and took the couch. She did protest, especially after seeing how half his legs hung over the arm, but he wouldn’t have it.

So they said their goodnights and drifted to sleep, and tomorrow they might just wake up a tad late, and Sally might just happen to smell like Anderson thanks to the sheets, and things might just radically change whether in their relationship or with Sherlock’s new delusional hostage named John, but right now Anderson was covered by the tattered red and black dinosaur sheets his mom bought him years ago, legs hanging uncomfortably off the couch’s arm, smiling.

That night, Anderson slept happily.

 

 

 

 


End file.
